


Glorious Insufficiencies

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Series: The Dhampir Cycle [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Death References, Dhampir, F/F, Kinks, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Requited Love, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes to terms with his relationships (for real this time). Does he choose the cold, cruel aristocrat archetype or the winsome, pleasant farm boy? Neither/Both?</p><p>Sixth and final fic in the Dhampir Cycle.  Written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glorious Insufficiencies

_High wisdom holds my wisdom less,  
That I, who gaze with temperate eyes  
On glorious insufficiencies,  
Set light by narrower perfectness.  
But thou, that fillest all the room  
Of all my love, art reason why  
I seem to cast a careless eye  
On souls, the lesser lords of doom.  
For what wert thou?  Some novel power  
Sprang up for ever at a touch,  
And hope could never hope too much,  
In watching thee from hour to hour._

-Excerpt from _‘_ In Memoriam A.H.H.’, Tennyson

 

 

John squinted against the afternoon light of the sitting room, the familiar ache behind his eyes reminding him of everything he wasn’t.

 

‘You went to Stamford’s last night,’ said Sherlock from the kitchen, where he was constructing a centrifuge-like machine on the worktop.  ‘How is he?’

 

‘Fine,’ John replied, and at once the doubt crept in, uncoiling like a serpent inside him when Sherlock said:

 

‘I don’t think you get my meaning.  By “how is he” I mean, does he please you?’

 

John sighed.  ‘That’s a bit personal, Sherlock.’

 

‘I see.’  There was a clattering sound from the kitchen; Sherlock had dropped something.  ‘I thought, perhaps,’ he said, his tone aggressively neutral, ‘I’d have the right to know.  Does he scream, like I do?  Does he rake his nails across your back, and cry your name?  Does his blood satisfy your hunger just as well?’

 

John stiffened in his chair, clutching the armrests, needing to hold onto something.  ‘Does it _matter_?’

 

‘No,’ said Sherlock mildly, ‘I’m only curious.’

 

John sat listening to Sherlock’s tinkering for awhile, breathing hard, fighting with himself.

 

And then, ‘Do you kiss him?’

 

‘Yes,’ said John brusquely, addressing the far wall with a glare, ‘I do, but I don’t see how it’s any of your concern.’

 

Sherlock ignored this.  ‘Does it hurt, knowing he’ll die someday, and you’ll keep living?’

 

John bit back the urge to shout at him, forcing his voice to remain steady.  ‘Christ, Sherlock, of _course_ it hurts!  What sort of question is that?’

 

‘When I die,’ Sherlock said, just as casually as before, ‘will you be upset?’

 

John pressed his fingers hard into his temples, as if it would solve things.  ‘I’d be very upset.’

 

‘You sound unhappy about that,’ Sherlock observed.  ‘I didn’t mean to make you unhappy.’

 

‘Didn’t you?  Maybe you should keep your questions to yourself, then!’

 

As John left the sitting room, going somewhere-else-he-didn’t-care-where, he heard Sherlock mutter, ‘But you’re the only one with the right answers.’

 

 

John sent a mass text to those who would understand it: _Where is my heart going?  Help. –JW_

The replies were as follows:

 

 _Poor John, are you still having trouble?  Everything will be okay, just be patient! –Molly_

 _You don’t need to know where it’s going to follow it. –Mike_

 _I can’t tell the future, darling, but I hope it takes you somewhere happy.  Come round?  We can brainstorm. –Charisma_

 _Though this isn’t my area of expertise, I can confidently say that if my brother’s involved, you’ll never be bored. –Mycroft_

And several hours later, when John was still at his wit’s end:

 _Not into the wood. –Harry_

John took out the album in his mind and held it, turning back the weathered pages that he’d cherished for so long.  Familiar images of happy people: families, couples, lovers, friends, children, all blissfully ordinary, free of the burden of abnormality.  John pictured himself among them, smiling and unaware of the life he led, now; ignorant of war, of Sherlock’s cases, of hunger that only blood could slake, of needing, always needing to decide.  And, for the last time, he closed its covers and tucked the album away behind his other thoughts—but not in its usual place.  No, now John pushed it into a far corner, a place of forgetfulness, and its pages smouldered to ash in the determination that consumed him like a flame.

 

 

He awoke the next day with a start, aware that someone was in the room, someone who ought not to be there.  His military training flicked across his muscles as he moved, as he opened his eyes, prepared to defend himself, and in memory his father read out the ancient script, _Fain not shall ye privilege them entrance to thy place of rest, for in their hands they carry the scythes of the damned._

 

But as he squinted in the watery light from the window he saw that it was only Sherlock, kneeling beside his bed, the sleeve of his dressing gown folded neatly back to expose his blue-veined wrist.

 

‘Breakfast,’ Sherlock whispered, eyes downcast, and John would have argued, would have scolded him for the intrusion, but the hunger clawed at his throat, crying to be filled.

 

 

When John was in Afghanistan, he fell for someone.  John knew it was unwise and tried to keep it at bay, but his heart was filled with contentment when they were near each other, and a fierce flare of want would strike him when they spoke.  He—the one John loved—was confident and brave, and he attacked every passing moment with a headstrong clarity of mind, his eyes smiling, even as the bullets mowed him down.

 

There was nothing John could do; it was over in an instant.  It was over.  John promised himself that he would never allow such a thing to pain him again.  It was foolish.

 

(But oh, he was foolish.)

 

 

‘You want my honest opinion?’

 

John was curled up on Mike’s sofa; they had been sitting in comfortable silence for over an hour, each in his own thoughts.

 

‘Always,’ said John.

 

Mike took of his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.  ‘Sherlock desperately needs you.’

 

John frowned.  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

 

‘No, really,’ said Mike in his sensible-professorish-average-endearing way, ‘he does, and I’m pretty sure everyone can see it but the two of you.’

 

John smiled a little, remembering an exhausted midday some weeks before, lack of sleep making Sherlock disarmingly honest: _Need you, too.  For lots of things.  Not just teeth._   And that staggering moment of weakness, the crack in the façade that flooded him with light: _Sorry that I need things.  I’m stupid sometimes._

‘I think,’ Mike went on, toying with a bookmark that lay on the little table next to his chair, ‘that if you care about him—and you’ve proven recently that you do, almost excessively—you ought to be with him, because of that.’

 

John snapped out of his reverie.  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

 

Mike raised his eyebrows.  ‘I always say what I mean, John, you know that.  I think you should go to him, and stay with him.  I honestly think it could work.’

 

‘But what about you?’ said John, even though as soon as the words had left him he felt selfish.  Did he really need to hang onto this... this whatever-comfortable-thing-they-had, when Sherlock was there, wanting him, needing things, needing him?  Did he truly think Mike so starved for solace, so incapable of independent happiness that John’s presence, the sex, the blood, was what mattered most between them?  For years, neither had felt the need to uncork any hackneyed words of short-lived devotion; they were both too sensible for that.  Or, at least, Mike was sensible; John had been, too, once.

 

Mike chuckled.  ‘Oh, I’ll get by well enough on my own.’  He looked down at his hands, self-conscious, a ghost of his erstwhile shyness haunting the room.  ‘To be honest, I never thought you’d come back to me, after all this time.  I was well prepared to carry on, and then there you were again, you know?  It was like a something out of Anne Rice.’  He smiled, looking up to meet John’s eyes.  ‘I’m happy with you, in this way we’ve been together, but I’m happy without this aspect of our relationship, as well.  You’re a good friend, John—I dare say even my closest friend.  I care about you deeply, and I’m glad to have you in my life, but _because_ I care for you so much, I have to put your happiness first.  Maybe _you_ should think about putting it first for once, eh?’

 

And it all made sense, at last.  John hadn’t known it was really possible to be that close with someone and still fall under the title of ‘friend’, to be honest with kisses and tangled, breathless moments and _trust_ without it needing to be anything more than what it was.

 

John felt the tension leaving his shoulders, relaxing into the idea that he was loved, but that there was no need to be in love.

 

‘God, you’re wonderful,’ he sighed, and Mike joined him on the sofa to hug him.  ‘How are people not trailing after you like puppies?’

 

Mike kissed John’s forehead.  ‘I suppose I’m just not a dog person.’

 

 

John felt it was time for some brainstorming.

 

‘All right,’ said Charisma from black-painted lips, ‘let’s break this down into manageable chunks.’

 

It was two in the afternoon; they were sitting in the empty lounge amid the revenants of incense and debauchery from the night before.  None of the lights were on (John had long ago told Charisma that he had ‘migraines’), just a few scattered pillar candles, and Charisma was eating an enormous sandwich out of a brown paper sack.  John had been surprised (though, he realised, rather stupidly) that she ate—he’d only ever seen people from the club drink liquor and blood (and on one eventful evening, breastmilk).  He knew that this fact likely provided a lot of insight into the general character of his social circle, but John didn’t particularly care.

 

‘Exhibit A: Sherlock is a gorgy man-pie but is fantastically dim.’

 

John nodded.  ‘In the ways that apply to this situation, yes.’

 

Charisma took a moment to chew before continuing.  ‘Exhibit B: Mike is also a gorgy man-pie and _not_ fantastically dim, but you’ve ended the torrid, depraved vampire fucking part of your relationship with him.’

 

‘It would be nice,’ said John, passing a wrist over his eyes, ‘if you didn’t keep referring to it as “the torrid, depraved vampire fucking part”, if you want me to stay on task.’

 

‘Sorry.’  She took a drink of tea from her oversized martini glass, leaving an inky smudge on the rim.  ‘Right, Exhibit C: You’ve been having equally torrid, depraved vampire sex with Sherlock, and now that Mike’s so considerately taken himself out of the vampire sex picture for your overall benefit, you want to go full steam ahead on that angle.’

 

John tossed one of the countless velvet throw-pillows at her.  ‘What did I say about the commentary?’

 

‘At least I left off the “fucking”,’ Charisma said cheerfully.  ‘Best to keep things clean for the censors.  Was there an Exhibit D?’

 

John thought for a moment, frowning.  ‘I don’t think so.’

 

‘Problem’s solved, then,’ she said, munching on the crusts of her sandwich.  ‘Just keep shagging.’

 

‘Uplifting words from our resident advice hag,’ John laughed, rolling his eyes at her.  ‘What’s your next suggestion, Keep Calm and Get It On?’

 

‘Actually,’ said Charisma, ‘that’s a lovely message.  I should get a poster made for the foyer.’

 

They talked of this and that for a time, until a confessional urge struck John in the solar plexus like a fist full of hope.

 

‘Pretty sure I’m in love with him,’ he said out of the blue.

 

‘Okay,’ said Charisma, shrugging.  Her lipstick had faded to a thickly-outlined grey, and she rubbed her lips together.  ‘So tell him.’

 

John made a helpless gesture.  ‘But he won’t take me seriously!’

 

Charisma gave him a deadpan look.  ‘John.  Darling.  _Sweetheart_.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘He brought you breakfast in bed!’

 

John flailed mentally for a moment.  ‘And?’

 

‘And,’ Charisma said insistently, ‘not only is that sort of breakfast in bed spectacularly hot on more levels than there are digits of pi, but it means that he trusts you.  He wants to please you.’

 

‘It could just be a kink thing,’ said John, sighing hard.  ‘He could just—’

 

‘It is not just a kink thing,’ she said forcefully, talking over him.  ‘I know, because he told me.’

 

John gaped at her.  ‘ _What_?  When?’

 

‘When he’s been coming here practically every morning for the past three weeks, asking me questions about how to best keep the interest of a Sanguinarian boyfriend.’

 

He spluttered.  ‘But we’re not boyfriends!  At least,’ he added hopefully, ‘not _yet_.’

 

Charisma clapped him on the back.  ‘That’s the spirit, darling.  Now, go find that cold, cruel aristocratic archetype and jump his god damned bones.’

 

 

John keyed his way into the flat.  ‘Sherlock, you home?’

 

‘Bedroom,’ he called.

 

John poked his head round the door, and stopped short.

 

Sherlock was lying on his stomach on his bed, surrounded by papers that were covered in his untidy scrawl, and he was reading a battered—John recognised it as Mike’s—copy of _Interview with the Vampire._   One of Sherlock’s legs was kicked up behind him, his scrunched-down sock flopping off his toe.

 

‘Dear God, you’re reading fiction.’

 

Sherlock looked up, amused.  ‘Yes?’

 

‘You _never_ read fiction, you’ve said loads of times that you find it pointless.’

 

‘But this isn’t pointless,’ said Sherlock, as if he were explaining the final, pivotal clue in a case.  ‘It’s something you like.’

 

John sighed, leaning against the doorjamb, resisting the urge to bolt for the woods.  ‘I think I’m in love with you.’

 

Sherlock smiled idly, turning a page; he was almost finished with the book.  ‘That’s nice.’

 

John clenched his teeth.  ‘ _That’s nice?_ ’

 

‘Yes,’ said Sherlock, ‘it’s incredibly nice, actually, because I’ve wanted you to say it for ages.’

 

John stared at him.  ‘People don’t just say they love you because you _want_ them to, Sherlock.’

 

He looked confused.  ‘They do on _Neighbours_.’

 

‘Life,’ John explained, exasperated, ‘is not necessarily the same as crap telly.’

 

‘Oh,’ Sherlock said thoughtfully, turning another page.

 

John stood there, framed by the doorway, doing his best not to be angry, simply doing his best, and not expecting more of himself.  ‘Do you care?’

 

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.  ‘Yes, of course.’

 

John let out a long, slow breath.  ‘You’re certainly being casual about it.’

 

‘Only because you’re being casual.’

 

John frowned.  ‘What?’

 

‘I would,’ Sherlock told him, sitting up quickly like some spring-loaded thing shooting out of a trap, ‘be kissing you, allowing myself to be pinned against a wall or some other acceptable surface, and making quite a bit of noise,’ he sighed, ‘if only you weren’t being casual.  I do take my cues from you, after all, since my judgement in that area seems somewhat... impaired.’

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  Sherlock was the most idiotic, destructive, infuriating clusterfuck _disaster_ of a person he’d ever met, and—

 

‘Come here,’ John growled, and Sherlock obeyed without question.

 

Their clothes came undone in far less than record time; they kept stopping to kiss, to look into each other’s eyes, getting distracted, hands cradling each other’s jaws, tangling fists in curls, splaying across hips like the wingspan of thin, fluttering birds.

 

John, dizzy with want, kissed his way down Sherlock’s jaw line, lips drifting against his throat, feeling the pulse of his blood beneath the skin, its galloping pace, its taste already on his tongue—

 

‘No,’ Sherlock insisted quietly, tensing, stepping back a scant few inches.  ‘You, not your teeth.  Just you.’

 

Awash with affection for him, for the fact that he—John, not his abilities, his _frailties_ —was wanted, John pulled Sherlock over to the bed, tumbling them both onto it, the countless papers crackling beneath them like brushfire.

 

‘Still... clothes,’ Sherlock managed to say, his trousers snarled around his knees, pants not even that far, his shirt half-unbuttoned and slouched to one side, pinned beneath him, the twisted fabric tight against his arm.

 

‘Damn them,’ said John, who was similarly dishevelled: his trousers and pants were off, but (miraculously) his socks and shoes remained on, his shirt undone beneath his jacket.  As he lay across Sherlock, their bodies pressed deliciously together through their jumble of garments and John was sure he must be squashing-restricting-hurting him but Sherlock didn’t mind, John kissed him again, slowly, lazily, but his quick breaths betrayed his hurry.

 

Sherlock noised into John’s mouth, trying in vain to pull off John’s jacket even though the angle was all wrong and John was leaning on his arms.

 

John pulled back, just enough to speak against Sherlock’s lips.  ‘Just leave it, I don’t care anymore.’

 

Sherlock’s cock dragged, all friction, against John’s navel, and Sherlock bit John’s lip to get his attention.

 

‘What?’

 

‘Want to touch you,’ Sherlock whispered helplessly, his face crossed with concern, as if he didn’t quite understand the words he spoke.  ‘You’re always—I never get to—please, John?’

 

It was an entreaty, not a queryless, querulous demand as his _please, John_ always had been before, and John rose up on all fours, staring down at him.  ‘Go on.’

 

Sherlock raised a hand to his mouth and in the crudest, most sexual gesture John had ever seen, licked his palm thoroughly, wetly, sliding his tongue between his long fingers.

 

‘ _God_ , Sherlock,’ John moaned.  ‘ _God_ , you’re beautiful.’

 

And Sherlock took hold of John’s cock, his slick hand scrolling tightly into a fist, pulling it towards him and away, forward and back.  John’s eyes almost shuttered closed, but he happened to glance briefly to one side, to the flurry of papers beneath Sherlock, his handwriting laid out across the bed like a blanket of words.

 

 _Father = vampire, mother = mortal, unlikely to survive childbirth, consumption legends (?)_

 _Age at approx. 1/3 the rate of humans once they reach adulthood_

 _Difficulty suppressing vampiric urge when injured/weakened/aroused (observed)_

‘What is this?’ John asked, though he had to try it out a few times to get the words to stick together as cohesive language rather than raw, guttural sounds as Sherlock changed the angle of his hand, the pace slowing then quickening again for one stroke, two, to slow again at once.

 

‘Research,’ Sherlock said beneath him, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

 _Canine and eye-teeth extend when,_ and the rest of the sentence was pinned by Sherlock’s shoulder, but another started at the margin, written across the long side of the paper: _Consumption of blood not drunk from a living person = approx. 1/16 nutritional value, unsatisfying._

John could suddenly speak again, his mind sharp and curious even as Sherlock twisted his hand, flicked his wrist, even as John guided his own hand between Sherlock’s thighs, down, back, to flutter against his entrance.  ‘ _How_ have you been doing research?’

 

 _Often incapable of creating further vampires_

 

‘Nicked your phone,’ Sherlock said, interrupted by his own keening sound and an arch of his back, ‘got your father’s number.’

 

 _...but capable of conceiving/birthing further Dhampir (plural/singular)_

Taking a cue from Sherlock, John spit onto his fingers, guiding his hand back between Sherlock’s legs, coaxing with his fingertips, pressing, pushing, _yes._ ‘Don’t do that in future, okay?’ John said faintly, clinging hard to his voice so it wouldn’t slip away.

 

‘Good reason,’ Sherlock retorted, managing to sound petulant even when he was gasping, his hips bucking off his scatter of notes.  A sheet of paper was stuck to his thigh; the part John could make out read, _Dhampir allow others to see vampires by looking through sleeves (?)_

Both of them were moving roughly, and when John leaned over Sherlock to kiss him it was precisely the wrong-right-wrong moment, for Sherlock’s teeth bumped abruptly, and hard, into John’s lip, and he tasted blood.

 

‘Fuck,’ John swore, gingerly feeling his split lip with his tongue even as he thrust into Sherlock’s encircling fist.  ‘Just ignore it.’

 

‘No,’ Sherlock growled, raising his head, flicking his own tongue against the split, licking the blood away.  ‘ _Mine!_   I _want_ it.’

 

And John, not as reluctant as he has supposed, allowed it, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder to read the papers there, still curious—

 

 _Pass skills onto sons, though daughters more vicious hunters and usually taller_

 _Scythe to the neck, must sever completely (never ever ever ever, I love you, you’re perfect)_

And then John had to squint to make out smaller text, for the light from the window was bright and stung his eyes:

 

 _I love you, I love you, John, my John, I love you, you have no idea how much I want you, I want all of you, crave you more than anything, I love you, I love you_

John, who realised he was getting sidetracked by emotion and had stopped moving his hand, crooked his fingers up, making Sherlock cry out, grinding down into his hand, rolling his hips like a belly-dancer.

 

His voice was low and smoky as he begged, ‘Please, John, _yes...’_

But John couldn’t help but tear his eyes away, looking, searching for words.

 

 _I love you, John.  I love you, I’m sorry I’m an idiot sometimes.  I’m sorry.  I love you, John.  I’m not sorry I love you.  John, John, John, John, mine, please say you’re mine, I love you so much it hurts._

He was hurtling right up to the edge, the hand supporting his weight clenched around the sheets, the sheets of paper, the two fingers knuckle-deep inside Sherlock crooking back and forth so fast it was almost a vibration rather than a caress, and Sherlock was ineffectively trying to claw at his back through his jacket and shirt, and they had locked eyes, both silent but for ragged breaths, each giving the other permission.

 

Life does not work in synchrony, and thus their orgasms reached them separately, John’s first, his come arcing over Sherlock’s abdomen and chest in a staggered jet, a few drops landing on Sherlock’s mouth, which Sherlock licked away slowly, his expression hedonistic and debauched as he drew his hand away from John’s cock, lapping at it as he had before.  John rested back on his knees, at last taking hold of Sherlock’s cock, turgid and flushed red-warm-alive against his hand, and within five strokes Sherlock was arching, clenching around John’s fingers, his now-familiar scream blessing the room like a hymn of praise.

 

John rolled to the side, feeling papers crunch under him, the paperback jabbing him in the side of the thigh.  He made an irritated noise, still panting, sat up and flung off his jacket and shirt in one go, toeing off his shoes, hesitating over his socks before taking them off, too.  Sherlock didn’t bother to divest himself of his rumpled clothes; he just lay there, surrounded by his research like a wrinkled nimbus, gazing at John elatedly through shot-wide pupils.

 

‘You’re...’ Sherlock started, but trailed off into a contented hum, low and warm in his chest.

 

‘Yours,’ John finished for him, lying back across the uncomfortable prickle of papers, stroking a lock of hair from Sherlock’s brow.  ‘I’m all yours.’

 

 

The club was unusually packed and noisy when John arrived, Sherlock in tow, both wearing their best black (Sherlock’s, it must be said, being rather more expensive and less faded than John’s).

 

‘John, hi!’ Charisma shouted over the heads of the people clustered at the bar.  ‘Come here, you gorgeous sad-eyed hero, I’ve got someone for you to meet!’

 

Sherlock quirked an amused brow at John, and he gave him a _tell you later_ look.

 

They squeezed their way through the crowd, finally reaching the bar, where Charisma came out from behind the waist-high swinging door and hugged them both.  ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said, her tongue ring clacking against her teeth in her excitement.  Waving someone over from a short way off, Charisma said, ‘Boys, this is my girlfriend.’

 

John started, gaping.  ‘Harry!’

 

Harry looked almost abashed.  ‘Hi, John.’

 

Sherlock turned to her, unfazed, shaking her hand.  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.  I’ve heard you’re quite the antagonist.’

 

Harry snorted.  ‘You’re one to talk, Head-In-The-Fridge.’

 

‘That was _one time,_ ’ Sherlock retorted, but he was smiling.

 

Charisma stood on tiptoe to speak into John’s ear over the thumping bass from the nearby speakers.  ‘Trystian’s got a new flame,’ she said.

 

‘What?’ said John as the song changed to a rickety, staccato rhythm and the volume increased, the strobe lights in the ceiling responding to the beat, making him screw his eyes shut against the flash.

 

‘Mike!’ she said in his ear.  ‘ _Your_ Mike!  Can you believe it?  He came in here looking like he’d come straight over in his work clothes, not a bit of black on him, he looked like a carpet salesman, I swear to Goddess!’

 

‘How are they going to date each other?’ John asked, shaking his head.  ‘The bastard never leaves.’

 

Charisma whacked him playfully on the arm.  ‘That’s because he sleeps in the basement, John!  Honestly, you’re still such a Mun sometimes.’  Her eyes sparkled in the needle-thin laser lights that rained down on them from above.  ‘I thought even you’d recognise a _real_ vampire.’

 

John found that he was grinning, and when Sherlock curled up behind him, rocking sinuously slowly to the frenetic music (John hadn’t even known he could dance), and he saw Harry, laughing, looking truly happy with a woman who could accept her just as she was, John felt the worries of forthcoming eternities fall away.  He turned to Sherlock, kissed him, and, each other’s blood singing in their veins, they danced.


End file.
